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I flip through her notebook until I find the envelope. Handing it to her I say, “Go ahead. Read it.”
“You want me to read it?”
“Sure. Tell me if there’s anything important in there, like some inheritance I don’t know about.” I cross my arms behind my head and close my eyes.
“Can I read it out loud?”
“Sure, babe. Whatever you want.”
She clears her throat as she unfolds the letter. “To My Son—”
I crack up laughing.
“TJ,” she says. “This is serious. Let me read it before you say anything.”
“Fine. Please continue.”
“To My Son.” She glares at me over the top of the letter.
I mimic zipping my lips and smirk.
“I’ve been wanting to write you this letter for many years, but to be honest I didn’t know what to say. Maybe I’m not sure what you want to hear.
Do you want an apology? I’ll give you one.
Will that make everything better? Not one bit.
Do you want me to say I’m a horrible human being? We both know I am.
Would it make you feel better to hear that I’ve suffered immensely for my sins? Because I have.
The bottom line is: There isn’t anything I can say in this letter to make up for what I’ve done. I killed the only woman who ever loved me. I killed the mother of my child. I put my son through unspeakable hell. I failed you. I failed her.
I failed myself.
I know I can’t make you understand why I did what I did. Even I don’t understand it. My therapist says that’s what happens when you have an addiction. It controls you and you become someone you didn’t even know you were capable of being.
I wish I could’ve been stronger. I wish I could’ve fought the cravings. Most of all, I wish I could go back. I never meant to hurt your mom. I never meant to hurt you.
But I did. So nothing I say makes a difference.
I’m dying, son. I’m not writing this letter for your sympathy. I’m writing simply to tell you goodbye. Maybe you’ll sleep better knowing I finally got the painful death I deserve. Or maybe you don’t think about me at all.
I think about you every day. I wonder what your life is like. I wonder what kind of man you’ve grown into. I wonder if you still look like me.
If you carry any ill feelings towards me, please, let them go. I’m not asking for forgiveness. I don’t deserve it. All I’m asking is that you let the past go. I’m sure it hasn’t been easy to do after what you witnessed. But the past is an anchor holding you back from moving forward. I don’t want you tethered to it.
Goodbye.
-Dad
Carla drops the letter onto the mattress and wipes her cheeks with the backs of her hands. “Wow. That was so …”
“Pointless?” I say.
“I was going to say real. He wasn’t begging for forgiveness. He wasn’t asking for anything. He just wanted you to lay it all to rest.” She sniffles. “That was pretty incredible.”
I shrug and toss the letter onto the floor. “For the record, I’m not mad at you for stealing the letter.”
